The Righteous Cut (19 page)

“So it was you two who killed the men at the shoe repair shop?” Farrell gave Parmalee a gentle nudge.

“Joey did that, the stupid, kill-crazy punk. Sky high on nose candy, he don't give a fuck about anything or anybody.”

“He kill Amsterdam and Callahan, too?”

Johnny looked blank. “Who? What you talkin' about?”

“Don't play dumb, Johnny. Richards's two top men were gunned down within hours of the kidnapping. If you didn't do it, who did?” As the words left his mouth, Farrell heard the hum of a motor grow suddenly stronger behind him. Before he could react, Georgia cried out in alarm.

Farrell shoved Parmalee against a shop window as he swung to meet the threat. He registered the wooden body of the station wagon first, cursed his stupidity at being caught flat-footed on a dark street. Light reflected from a pair of rimless glasses beneath the low brim of a hat as a lance of yellow flame burst through the open car window. Farrell felt the electric hum of a bullet sing past his ear. Already off balance, he fired twice, but the shots went wild. He struggled vainly to regain his footing, knowing the other man had all the time in the world to make a clean shot. He was faintly conscious of Parmalee breaking away, of Georgia screaming, but all his concentration was focused on bringing his gun to bear on the man in the station wagon. He squeezed the trigger, felt the gun buck in his hand a fraction of a second behind the muzzle blast that flared in his face from the other man's gun. Farrell ground his teeth, knowing the other man couldn't miss, knowing he was dead and would never look into his daughter's eyes. All his rage, frustration, and disappointment erupted from him in a furious roar as Georgia threw herself in front of him.

The bullet struck her, bouncing her body onto Farrell's. He caught her as they collapsed on the sidewalk. He fought his gun past her and emptied the magazine at the station wagon that now retreated at a furious clip. The silence that followed was deafening.

Anyone who had been within a block of them had melted into the night, leaving that part of Iberville as lonely as Marie Laveau's tomb. Farrell pulled Georgia to him, turned her carefully so he could see the wound. Blood welled from a hole above her left breast.

“Georgia? Georgia, can you hear me?”

Georgia's eyelids fluttered. “Wes—save her. Save-our-ch-child, for God's—”

Farrell went cold all over as she stopped talking. He pressed his fingers against her carotid artery, found a weak, thready pulse beating there. Flexing the muscles in his legs, he swept the woman's body up into his arms and ran to his car a half-block away. He prayed she'd last the six-block trip to the emergency room at Charity Hospital.

***

Carson sat in an armchair with his eyes closed. Johnny had gone out to get a few drinks and the men Arboneau had sent over had returned to the city after it was clear they weren't needed. It amused Carson to know that he'd tied a knot in his brother's tail, and he now sat alone in this quiet parlor like an honest working stiff. If he knew his brother, Whit had probably worn a hole in the carpet by now.

All told, this caper had gone pretty well. A couple of people had gotten killed, but that was the way it went sometimes. It was bothersome that Arboneau had brought the younger Parmalee into this game. It made Carson doubt the old man's judgment. However, it wasn't Arboneau who had brought Carson into this, but Arboneau's partner. Arboneau had an organization and the will to use it, but it was his partner who had the plan. He smiled, thinking about their meeting in Seattle. The plan had been laid out in front of him like a photograph, and the utter ruthlessness of it had sold him immediately.

The telephone rang, interrupting his reverie. He frowned, pulled the instrument to him. “Yeah?”

“Are you alone?” a soft, muffled voice asked.

Carson raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering when I'd hear from you. Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you from the beginning how this would be. There was no time for anybody to take a vacation in the middle of it. But it's almost over now. I'll be out to see you, soon. Maybe this evening.”

Carson's lips bent into a smile. “I'm looking forward to it. We're almost at the finish.”

“That we are, Pete. Sooner than you think.”

Chapter 17

Whitman Richards paced the floor of his office like a caged animal. Rob Langdon was still missing and that knowledge only added to his sense of disquiet. Richards had called Rob's apartment several times, but to no avail. The athletic club Rob belonged to and a bar he frequented had all been called, but in spite of messages left and pleas to have his calls returned, the phone had remained silent throughout the afternoon and into the evening. He began to suspect that he might have been wrong about Rob. He had called home several times, too, but Georgia remained among the missing. Had she and Rob run away together? Even worse, were they mixed up in this scheme of Pete's? He wouldn't put that past Georgia, not the way she felt about him.

He continued to pace, running his fingers restlessly through his thick, dark hair. Failure was a stench in his nose. You sat around day-dreaming about love and roses while a man you should've killed sneaked into your town and ruined what you spent twenty-five years building. Christ.

He felt hollow inside. Days of terror for his missing daughter and impotent fury at his unseen enemies had drained him of his juice. A man can rationalize failure up to a point, but let him finally lose respect for himself and he is as surely defeated as though taken prisoner on a field of battle. As he stood feeling sorry for himself, the telephone startled him back into the here and now. With a shaking hand, he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Richards, this is King Arboneau calling.”

“A-Arboneau?”

“That's right. I'm responsible for bringing your brother back to town, but of course, you know that already.”

“I-I don't understand.”

“Pardon me if I laugh. You understood well enough when you ruined me. You understood perfectly well when you had my son assassinated.”

“Y-your son? He made threats against me. What was I supposed to do, old man? What would you have done?”

The silence in the open phone line seethed for a moment, then Arboneau spoke again, in a chillingly calm, rational voice. “I did what I should've done years ago, Richards. I arranged to have your daughter taken away. I sent people to rob you and kill your employees. And here's one more thing I've done. Here, listen.” He put his receiver down noisily. Sounds of a struggle followed, then the rattle of the receiver being picked up again. Then came a cry and a voice he knew.

“Whit? It's—it's Rob.”

“Rob? Where are you? What's—”

Rob's voice jittered with terror. “Whit, listen, they got me. And—and—”

“And what? Tell me, man.”

Langdon's words seemed to stick in his throat. “They've got—Meredith—too.”

Richards almost cried out in despair but somehow he kept control of himself. “No. No, that's not possible. The sheriff's deputies—”

“They—they forced me to call Marerro, Whit. I told him to pull the deputies off. That—that you wanted it done.”

“
Oh God, no
,
” Richards cried. “Tell him—tell him—I'll give him whatever he wants. Anything—Rob? Rob?”

Rob spoke, but not to Richards. It was pitched at a level of hysteria that matched Richards' own. “
No—Don't! Don't
sho
—” A pair of sharp cracks lacerated Richards' ears, then came the sound of a woman shrieking in terror.

“Merry—Merry—God damn you, Arboneau, put Merry on,” Richards cried. “Put her on.”

Arboneau laughed dryly. “Now that you know what I'm capable of, do you feel more like cooperating?”

“No,” Richards moaned. “Please. Don't kill her. I'll do whatever you ask. Just don't kill her.”

“Listen carefully, Richards. I'll give you some instructions.”

***

Casey drummed his fingers on his desk blotter as he held the telephone receiver to his ear. “Yes, doctor. Yes, I understand. We'll be waiting for your call.” He hung up the telephone and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He tried not to think of what Brigid would say about missing dinner. “He said they're still working on her, Wes. He wouldn't hazard a guess on the outcome.”

“That's great,” Farrell said in a dead voice. “And Parmalee is probably halfway to Kansas City by now.”

Casey swiveled the chair and looked at Farrell as he stared out at the dark street. “But you're still alive, and that's pretty good news to me,” he replied softly. “We aren't licked yet, son. Not yet.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Casey heard something in Farrell's voice that he didn't quite recognize. “What's got you in such a stew?”

Farrell turned from the window. “Before Georgia and I went out for Parmalee tonight, she—she told me—something.”

Casey leaned forward, straining to hear what Farrell wasn't saying. “You can talk plainer than that.”

Farrell took the photograph out of his shirt pocket and handed it to his father. “Take a good look at that picture and see if it reminds you of anybody.”

Casey's brow became furrowed as he took the photo from his son. He spent a couple of minutes shifting his eyes from the picture to Farrell's face and back again. “Wait a minute. You're not saying that this kid's—”

Farrell nodded. “I've done the math several times already. Jessica's going to be eighteen in April. Georgia left me in September 1924. She couldn't have been more than a month or so along, but she knew she was pregnant.” He turned and looked at his father with a sad smile. “Now that you're a grandfather, have you got any words of wisdom?”

Casey stood up to put his hand on Farrell's shoulder. “Since I met you, son, life has sure been an adventure.” He laughed softly. “I wish your mother was here now.”

There came a knock at the door. The pair turned to find Israel Daggett standing in the door. “I've got Skeeter Longbaugh's statement, Captain. It fills in a lot of holes, but not the one we need. Apparently Coupé never talked to him about the gang's hideout or who's leading the gang.”

Farrell lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I don't see how you guys stand this waiting.”

Daggett grinned. “We don't. We just learned how to make it look like we do.”

Farrell drew on the cigarette again, then relaxed, letting the smoke slowly escape his nostrils. “Is the kid still here?”

Daggett shrugged. “Yeah. We only just finished with him a few minutes ago.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Daggett looked at Casey, who squinted and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's okay with me.”

Daggett jerked his thumb. “Let's go see him, then.”

The lanky brown man led them downstairs to the Negro Squad, which occupied several rooms at the back of the second floor. There they found Andrews and Longbaugh at a desk sharing a roast beef po'boy sandwich.

“Skeeter, this is Mr. Farrell and Captain Casey. They've got a few more questions for you.”

Skeeter put the remnants of his sandwich down in the wrapper and wiped his mouth on his shirt cuff. “Don't know what else I can tell you that I ain't already.”

Farrell smiled with a reassurance he didn't feel. “I know you've been through it a hundred times, but humor me a little, okay, kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out.”

“Yes, sir. I was comin' home after bein' out all night, and I found the Parmalees in my house.”

“Just waiting for you.”

“Yeah. Said they needed me to get 'em on the school grounds. I was scared stiff.”

“They say anything on the way to the school?”

“No, sir. Only that they'd been told 'bout Miss Jessica's job in the office and how she got there through the cloister.”

“They say how they knew?”

“Nosir, but everybody there knows her. They coulda watched from the gate and seen her do it every day, reg'lar as clockwork. Anyways, they wanted me to stop her in the cloister, distract her, like.”

Farrell lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. “They grabbed her and carried her out. Then what?”

“Well, that's when Butterbean seen us and started into hollerin'. Joey Parmalee stabbed him and he dropped. His brother was some mad about that, but he was in a big hurry to leave, so we got in the car and drove off.”

“Okay,” Farrell said. “Now you're in the car with them for what, fifteen minutes or so? What went on between them?”

“Well, I could see they didn't like each other much. Johnny'd pick on him some, but Joey, he'd come back at him. It was strange, like he was scared of his big brother, but couldn't stop himself from comin' back at him. Scared me, I'll tell ya. Anyways, Johnny, he just kept drivin', stickin' to the limit.”

“What did they argue about besides killing you?”

Skeeter shrugged. “I wisht I could say for sure. I was concentratin' on stayin' alive more than I was listenin' to 'em snap at each other. Joey was mighty disagreeable. Then come the accident and I made tracks.”

Farrell frowned, trying to think of something else to prod the youngster's memory. “Nothing else, huh?”

“No, sir. I sure wish there was.”

“Okay. Thanks, kid. I'm glad you made it.” He turned and walked away with Casey at his side.

“Skeeter, I guess you'd like to make that call to your girlfriend, wouldn't you?” Andrews said.

Skeeter broke into a smile. “Reckon so. Reckon Mabel's been real worried.” He got up to reach for the telephone, then stopped, blinked, shook his head as though trying to remember something.

“Hey, man? What's eatin' you?” Andrews asked.

The boy turned suddenly. “Mr. Farrell.”

The excitement trilling along the edge of Skeeter's voice spun Farrell about on his heel. “Yeah?”

“I just remembered somethin'. Joey was in such a hurry 'cause he had him a date with some gal named Gabby.”

“Gabby?” Farrell closed his eyes for a moment, his body tense with concentration. When he opened them, the picture was there in his mind: the pretty, pale-skinned young girl in King Arboneau's butcher shop. The girl named Gabrielle. And with her, a slight young man wearing glasses. “I think I've got this figured out.”

***

It was past ten-thirty when Richards left his office. The stark emptiness of Carondelet Street was heightened by the rhythmic clack of his leather heels on Gallier Hall's marble steps. His skin was slick with a feverish, alcoholic sweat. Meredith's face flashed before his eyes, tormenting him.

He drove across Poydras Street, through the business district to Canal, on into the Quarter. The sounds of hot jazz from honkey-tonk doorways clashed jarringly against his ears, and the garish glow of the neon signs took on a nightmarish quality. The smells of beer, smoke, and cheap perfume came through the open car window like an evil miasma, clinging vilely to his skin. He mopped his clammy face with a handkerchief, but moments later the slimy alcoholic sweat returned. High pitched feminine laughter reached out at him from the sidewalks, taunting him as he fought to get his car through the weekend traffic.

He continued across Esplanade Avenue into the Faubourg Marigny, leaving the raucous Quarter behind him. Passing through one long shadow after another, his journey took on the qualities of a sickroom nightmare. He reached inside his coat and found there the reassuring weight of his Remington automatic, the sole remaining vestige of his early criminal life. Almost the only thing he had left from that time, save Georgia. How had that gone wrong? he wondered. Had there been some unheeded warning in the souring of that love that one day the rest would sour too?

Suddenly he was crossing Elysian Fields into Bywater. The narrow streets were flanked on each side by tiny shotgun cottages jammed up against each other. Infrequent streetlights served only to make the crowded neighborhood more forbidding. Something was familiar about this area, but what? Haven't been here in, what, eight, ten years?

As he drove past a cluster of warehouses, something flashing up ahead drew his attention. Drawing nearer, he saw it was a railroad crossing, and in the open field beside the tracks was the Chevrolet station wagon Arboneau had mentioned. Parked just beyond was a late model Studebaker. The silhouette of a man could be seen in the driver's seat. He crossed the tracks, pulling to the curb.

Hastily he scrubbed the sweat from his face with the limp handkerchief, throwing it on the floorboards as he opened his door. He slid out, swiftly transferring his gun to his overcoat pocket. He stepped out into mist that swirled about his knees. He knew where he was now. He remembered the loud-mouthed kid slumped with his neck broken in the Pontiac sedan, the shrill whistle of an approaching train piercing the night.

As he walked toward the station wagon, he saw a man behind the wheel. The man turned his head slightly, light reflecting off his spectacles. Richards paused, frowning at the familiarity of the profile. No, it couldn't be. That wasn't possible. He walked more slowly, his hand wrapped about the butt of his gun. Merry had to be in the back of the station wagon. Then the creak of hinges reached him and the fat man stepped out of the passenger side of the car.

“That's far enough,” the fat man said.

“Arboneau? Where's Meredith? Where's my daughter?”

The fat man stepped away from the station wagon, his movements slow and heavy, but there was authority in the way he held his head, moved his arms. “You know this place, don't you Richards? Can you remember my son's face.”

Richards' eyes darted around wildly. “Your son. This is where your son was killed.”

A phlegmy laugh reached him. “This is where the train hit his car, but he was already dead. Do you remember? He called you a blood-sucking worm and a coward who had other men do his killing for him.”

The pale winter moon cast a gray luminescence on the old man's baggy face. His deep-set eyes were lost in shadow, giving his expression a hideous, skull-like aspect. Richards felt the sweat on his face again, gripped the automatic tighter inside his pocket as he shoved the safety off with his thumb. “I didn't come here to talk about ancient history. Where's Meredith and my daughter, Goddamnit?”